Halcyon est-1

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  Chapter 19. Salvator

  While it is gratifying to know that I can still do this as well as I could ten years ago, I think it’s time to move on.

  Salvator crawled out from under the tiny shelf at the bottom of the pantry and stood up slowly, listening to the tiny creaks and pops in his back as he straightened out his spine. His hiding space had been several inches too low, too short, and too narrow, yet he had lain there in perfect silence for over an hour. Before that he had squatted in an ancient dumbwaiter for half an hour, dashed up and down a back staircase for half an hour, and spent seven very long minutes clinging to a rafter above a privy while a tall man in green used the facilities with considerable gusto.

  The Italian spent a moment stretching his neck and shoulders. He sniffed his sleeve.

  Pepper. I’ve smelled worse.

  Hearing nothing outside the door, he stepped out into the kitchen and glanced around the long room of iron stoves and brick ovens and wooden blocks full of shining steel knives. It smelled of bread. He snatched up a handful of something that didn’t quite look like proper bread, but tasted better than a belly full of nothing and he chewed thoughtfully as he made a quick circuit of the room. There were noises beyond the door at one end, so he hurried to the far end of the room, heard nothing, and stepped out into a cool corridor.

  During his wild chase through the Temple, he had headed down at every opportunity, in part to get closer to the ground level to make his escape and in part because it was easier on his hips to go down than to go up. And while he had returned to the stone levels of the fortress, somewhere in all the turns and backtracks and dark rooms he had lost count of the floors, and with no windows to tell him how high above the street he still was, he had no choice but to find the next stair and continue down.

  There were two close calls as he rounded corners when he almost ran straight into a quiet gentleman in green coming the other way, but each time Salvator leapt back into a dark nook with his hand on his rapier and waited in silence for the other man to pass.

  Always a man and never a woman. Such a disappointing cult.

  In just a few minutes he had descended several more floors and was just thinking that he needed to find a window to assess his location when he heard a sharp clang. Peering down the spiral of the iron stair, the Italian spied a dull orange light below.

  He sniffed the air.

  Iron? Sulfur? And something else.

  He descended again, walking almost crab-like on the stairs so that he could look down past his feet to be sure no one was waiting nearby to skewer him on a burning hot blade, and so he slowly came down to the source of the orange glow. It was not the bottom of the iron stair, but it must have been close, judging by the extreme darkness of the floors below him. Salvator stepped away from the stair.

  Just down the hall was a door standing half open to reveal the warm fiery light from the room beyond. A hammer banged on hard steel. Steam hissed. Bellows blew.

  A forge. And voices. Two men.

  He slipped to the edge of the door and looked inside. The forge within was a perfectly medieval establishment. It looked very little like the modern smithies he had known in Italia, and far less like the factories of Marrakesh. The floors and walls were all of huge stone blocks. The anvil was little more than a short iron plinth. The source of the orange light was a huge open fire pit full of glowing coals and it was supplied with air from a bellows at its base that looked like the recently acquired stomach of a camel or ox.

  The man standing over the anvil and hammering at the glowing length of steel stood out in sharp contrast from his surroundings. He was tall and lean, with his black hair bound in a tight oiled knot on top of his head, and though his back was to the door, Salvator could see he was clean shaven. There was no soot or ash on his bare arms, and no obvious scars or burns to mar his corded brown flesh. And when he spoke, his words were quick and soft. In the Italian’s mind, such a man belonged in a princely court.

  To the left sat a second man, one better suited to the ancient forge. He was shorter and older, with unkempt gray hair and an unkempt gray beard, and his green robes hung about him in wrinkled disarray, pushed up here and hanging down there and falling open to reveal his stained shirt in a crooked manner.

  The tall smith said something and both men laughed.

  They were speaking Eranian, Salvator was certain, but over the hammering on the anvil and the quenching in the water tub, he couldn’t hear more than two words clearly at one time.

  So he stepped inside with his rapier drawn, and bowed. “Gentlemen, good evening to you both. My name is Salvator Fabris.”

  The bearded man sitting on the left squinted at him and then burst out laughing. He turned to the smith and said, “It’s the Italian who scared Khai this afternoon! Ha! He’s still here. I told you, Jiro, I told you Khai was lying. He’s still alive!” And then he turned to Salvator and said, “Khai’s told everyone he found you and killed you himself. As if that old crow could chase down anything nimbler than a dead wildebeest. Ha!” He slapped his leg and leaned back with a smug smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

  Salvator smiled back as he shut the door behind him.

  This may be easier than I expected.

  “I’m pleased I could give you the satisfaction of being right, sir. You friend, Signore Khai, proved a less than hospitable host, I’m afraid. So I took my leave of him in search of better company.”

  The older man’s smile faded somewhat. “Yes, well, that’s all well and good, but why have you come here at all? To steal our secrets? To kill us? Hm? Surely you don’t think you’re the first man to try.”

  The tall smith set aside his half-formed blade in the bed of coals and turned to face the intruder. The smith had high cheekbones and strangely lidded eyes, and Salvator guessed him to be from some distant land in the east. He recognized the subtle grace in the smith’s movements, the way he shifted his feet and rested his empty hands at his sides.

  A fighter.

  “I have come for information, that much is true. I had not intended to enter your sanctuary in this fashion, but your receptionists, those fine gentlemen with the pistols outside the front doors, were less than helpful in directing me to someone with whom I could do business.”

  “Hm.” The older man folded his arms over his belly. “This is not a place of business, young man. It is our home and our school. A place of learning. As you say, it is our sanctuary. We have other places away from the Temple for conducting business.”

  “Then I apologize for the intrusion.”

  “You killed several of our guards.”

  “Then I apologize for the inconvenience. And the mess.” Salvator sheathed his sword and held up his empty hands in a tiny gesture of reconciliation. “But you seem like a reasonable gentleman, and I prefer to conduct civilized business with civilized men. Perhaps you and I can come to a mutually profitable arrangement, mister…?”

  “I am Master Rashaken. My tall friend is Master Jiro.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintances, sirs.” Salvator arched an eyebrow.

  Did he call me a young man a moment ago? He can’t be more than five years my senior. I wonder if hopes to intimidate me with those subtle remarks.

  “As you say, I am a member of the Italian court and I am here to learn about this organization on behalf of my government. We have been aware of you for some time now through your contracted operatives.”

  “And now you want to know where we stand. Our allegiances and alliances. Who do we like and who do we like to kill?” Rashaken said. “And no doubt, you wish to learn all about the seireiken, and perhaps even walk out of here in possession of one.”

  “Or one hundred.” Salvator smiled.

  “You spoke of mutual profit. What do you have, what does the king of Italia have, that could possibly be of profit to us?”

  “Information. Money. Men. Ships. Land. We can negotiate the finer points later. Suffice it to say that his majesty is a
man of business and is ready to be a friend and partner to anyone who stands by him.”

  “Ah, the Italians.” A strange little smile twisted Rashaken’s beard. “Your king has many problems. Bad weather. Bad crops. Bad ships. And worst of all, he must share power with your priests, with your pope. Rome must be quite a dangerous place these days with the Guelphs shooting each other in the streets.”

  “Yes,” Salvator said airily. “His Holiness seems to have no difficulty in raising funds for his cathedrals and his men-at-arms. And why should he? He offers eternal salvation with one hand and eternal torment with the other. The people don’t love him so much as fear his pronouncements. So I admit, he has an unfair advantage over His Majesty, who must actually work for a living to manage his nation.”

  “It would seem to me that, if I were to seek a business partner in Italia, I should visit the Vatican instead of the royal palace,” Rashaken said. “The Temple of Osiris is, among other things, an institution of faith. Why would we ally ourselves with a beleaguered king when we could ally with a powerful pope? But this is all academic. The real question is, why would we ally with any Europans at all? You have nothing that we require or desire, and if you did then we would simply take it for ourselves. You have misjudged us, Mister Fabris, just as you have misjudged your own pope. We exist outside of worldly concerns, as you know them. We rule men’s hearts and minds, and with them follow great wealth and strength of arms. Politics is a game for children, Mister Fabris. When you are ready for a man’s endeavor, we will teach you to play at religion.”

  Salvator frowned. “I’m disappointed, of course.”

  Rashaken shrugged apologetically. “Of course.”

  The Italian touched his sword hilt. “I could threaten to kill you. I could actually kill you, as well.”

  Rashaken gestured to the towering smith, who had not moved and barely blinked throughout the conversation. “You’re welcome to try. But Master Jiro might prove an impediment to that.”

  Yes, I believe he would.

  Salvator sighed. “I can offer you one thing, in exchange for some small hint about these strange swords of yours. If you tell me about the aetherium, I will tell you the name of the contractor who betrayed your secrets to me.”

  Rashaken inhaled slowly, cleared his throat loudly, and exhaled. “I suppose that’s worth knowing, so we can eliminate that leak. I’ll tell you a bit about the sun-steel. It costs me nothing to talk, and it guarantees that we will have to kill you as soon as possible, so please, have a seat.”

  Salvator sidled over to a bench and sat where he could see both men as well as the closed door out of the corner of his eye.

  “The sun-steel is not of our world,” Rashaken said. “It fell to earth several thousand years ago during the early dynasties of Aegyptus here, and the very first empire of Nippon, Master Jiro’s homeland in the east. Our records of the event are incomplete and riddled with myths and legends and prophecies, but we have pieced together a rough story with the ring of truth to it. It began with the sun. There was a flash of light in the midday sky, and for the following six nights men saw beautiful auroras all over the world, not just in the distant north and south. And nine days after that, the steel began to rain down on the earth. It fell in pieces of all sizes, most smaller than your fist, but some larger than a horse. At first glance it looks like ordinary gold, and it took time for anyone to discover its special properties.”

  “You say the aetherium fell all over the earth? Then why haven’t we found any of it in Italia? Or Hellas? There had been no sign of it in Espana either, until recently. Why is that?”

  Jiro chuckled and muttered something in his native tongue.

  Rashaken smiled. “Because, dear boy, we gathered it up. Or I should say, our forebears did. The Temple of Osiris here in the west and the Temple of Amaterasu in the east have been collecting it for centuries. After all, it takes quite a bit of steel to make a single sword, and we have thousands of them. Every now and then some new bit of the steel still falls to earth, as it happened in Espana several centuries ago, but that is vanishingly rare.”

  “I see. So the aetherium fell from the sun? The sun is made of steel?”

  “We believe so, yes. It was at that same time, thousands of years ago, that the very first ghost stories began to emerge in the north. You know the ones, the old tales of jealous lovers and lost children and angry killers returning from the grave? Well, apparently, no one had ever seen a ghost before the steel fell. We suspect, but cannot prove, that no one had ever seen the aether mist before then, either.”

  “Are you suggesting that aether also comes from the sun?”

  “There are many theories. Personally, I suspect that the sun is some sort of forge where aether is created and then blasted by heat until it becomes sun-steel, or aetherium, as you call it. And that day, long ago, there was some calamity upon the sun. An explosion, perhaps. Bits of the steel fell to earth and a rain of aether fell with it.”

  Salvator pouted thoughtfully. “Fascinating. But aether reveals the souls of the dead, and the aetherium can absorb souls with the aether. So if the aether and the steel fell from the sun, then what is the connection between the sun and our souls?”

  Rashaken shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps we all came from the sun at the beginning of time? Or perhaps the sun is the house of the gods, from which our souls come and to which our souls will return at the ending of the world? It’s a strange universe, and we learned men are but insects trying to comprehend the vastness of the stars.” He threw up his hands in a playful gesture of helplessness. “And here ends our lesson. You now know one of the greatest stories and mysteries of our entire world, which profits you nothing, and you know nothing of the Temple, which might have profited you a great deal. At any rate, my part of the bargain is fulfilled. So now, the name of our loose-tongue contractor, if you please.”

  Salvator nodded. “That was a most interesting lesson, sir. Thank you for it. It was certainly worth the life of your operative. At least to me. I first met-”

  The door opened and the Italian leapt to his feet as he drew his rapier. He edged toward the door, noting the complete lack of expression on the smith Jiro’s face as the man saw whoever it was coming through the doorway.

  Two people stepped into the room. Salvator froze. “Shifrah?”

  The one-eyed Samaritan stared back at him. “Sal?”

  Behind her, he saw the familiar features of the young man in the black jacket who had boarded the steamship in Carthage. Her Mazigh gunslinger.

  Shifrah smirked. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Yes.” Salvator shifted the point of his sword toward the young man behind her. “Well, we’ll see just how much we still fancy one another in a few moments.”

  “Master Rashaken.” Shifrah nodded at the older man. “And Master Jiro. It’s been a long time. You’re both looking well.”

  “Little Dumah.” Jiro smiled. “Is it harder to throw a knife straight with only one eye?”

  The woman shrugged. “Only at first.”

  “Excuse me.” Salvator smiled. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but you all seem to have some catching up to do, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my leave.” He flicked his rapier to wave Shifrah and her companion away from the door. They moved aside, never taking their eyes from him but never betraying any hint of tension or desire to strike. Salvator stepped into the open doorway.

  “Be quick, Italian, and you might live to see the dawn. But don’t make any plans for supper tomorrow,” Rashaken said. “You have no idea how easy it will be for my boys to find a tall, pale Italian with a striking mustache such as yours. Visit a barber tonight and you might dine tomorrow after all. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Salvator hesitated. It’s just the sort of bluff I would make in his position. It’s just the sort of threat I would make in any position. But this temple. This temple is enormous. This man commands hundreds of trained killers. Not better than me, naturally, but against a
n army of hundreds? He’s right. They will find me. They might even kill me.

  “Master Rashaken.” The Italian kept one eye on Shifrah as he spoke. “I find that men of a certain age should only travel about in the company of friends. It’s far more comfortable, entertaining, and civilized. And I do abhor a dull silence.” He shifted his rapier toward the old man across the room. “If you would do me the honor of your company.”

  “You’re not taking him,” Shifrah said. A pair of stilettos slid down into her hands, their blades glinting gold and crimson in the light of the forge. “I’ve come a very long way to find him.”

  “Oh? Is this your mysterious broker?” Salvator asked.

  “No. He’s a friend. And I need to speak to him.” She raised her knives. “Leave now.”

  Salvator pointed his sword at her. “And if I refuse?”

  She threw both her knives at him.

  Chapter 20. Qhora

  The journey across the city from The Cat’s Eye was a blur of shadows, the rumble of iron wheels, and a drone of muffled voices. Qhora sat very still on the hard wooden seat of the carriage with a large armed man beside her and another across from her. The small windows were curtained, leaving the interior of the carriage almost pitch black, but whenever a flicker of light from outside pierced some gap around the edge of the curtains she saw the unblinking eyes of her captors staring back at her and their hands on their pistols.

  When the carriage stopped, she was led out into a dimly lit carriage house, through a door and down a narrow corridor, and then up a short stair, around a corner, and a hall and a door and on and on. It became an exhausting parade of old stone walls, chipped stone steps, scuffed wooden steps and creaking iron stairs, stone archways obscured by curtains, and stone doorways sealed with dark wooden doors with crude iron handles. Candle light played on the walls ahead and behind them, and sometimes she caught a glimpse of the young lady from the restaurant leading the way.

  I’m here. I’m inside their fortress or temple or whatever it is. Aker El Deeb might be here, somewhere. If I could only get away, if I only knew where to look. I could find someone and force them to tell me, to lead me to him. I could find him. I could find the sword. I could hold Enzo’s soul in my arms. Tonight.